Have you heard my women?
They are singing to themselves.
They owe no one a single note.
If you hear their song, it is
because you pry.
–
Have you seen my women?
They are swinging their hips
alone. They owe no one a
single swaying bone
if you watch them dance, it is
because you spy.
–
Have you touched my women?
They are holding themselves.
They owe no one a single stroke.
If you touch my women,
why?
–
My women are more than
a sweet song, a sight, a touch.
How soft your mind has made us!
I am a human incubator stretching
to house the world’s breath.
–
I am loud and I am soft
but I am also rough, a stone orchid
blooming in the blazing sun.
I am cooling lava. I am birthing terra.
Watch me solidify.
–
My women, we are seed and soil.
My women, we are rain.
My women, we are fire,
the blood pumping through the vein
of the earth.
–
The book of Life is written
in our parting skin,
our spreading hips and rolling hills.
If you breathe, if you live, if you love, it is
because of her.
